You will not survive if you stay in the plane; so JUMP

Have you ever had a nightmare of dying in a plane crash? Oh, yeah. Oh, yeah..It can take a faltering plane three or four minutes to fall out of the sky. Oh, Shit! Oh, Shit is right. You'll have time to say, "Oh, Shit!" four or five hundred times. When the plane slams the ground at three or four hundred miles an hour, you get to burn to death (if you're not already shovel scraping dead with your eyeballs bouncing down the pavement).Three or four minutes.....three or ...four.

You can boil an egg over a flame not nearly as intense as the Bar-B-Que you'll be attending in...180 seconds. (Goodbye, *mmuaah* --kiss of death).

When your headed straight toward the ground and people are screaming, crying, praying, and other things -- (I knew a stewardess who was in such a situation once and she said several people had sex. Her plane was saved at the last minute, but that's not usually the case. Everybody was disgusted with the people who chose to fuck over pray. How dare they, squeeze a last lovers tryst into their last three minutes on earth. Maybe I shouldn't say "on earth," because technically they were not on the earth. Had events been a wee bit different, they would have been all over the earth, going from a pre-crash height of, lets say, six feet to an after-crash height of six inches), and don't think screwing at the last second and then living to tell about is the norm. No, it is not. In nearly all cases, once your plane starts falling apart and the fuselage rolls over and the nose points down, you are fucked.

The real question is: do you want to say alive? Are you a survivor? Yes, Yes, I am. Well then-- JUMP. Yes, I said jump. Click here for instructions for after you've pushed through the exit door and are in free fall: Help!

Plane Crash

You don't have a chance if you stay in the plane!

I LOVE ANI FAN CLUB admirer page, aaahhhhh shit! Ain't she beautiful.

Her music is drawn from folk, but with those big lungs and all that strength born of rage and love, she makes me jumpandgiggle when I watch her. Hearing her is good too. Go to her site -- buy something, I don't know if she needs the money, but, just from watching her, I know if she doesn't need the money -- she will find someone who does. Here is a shortcut to more Ani: I_Love_Ani

Ani DiFranco playing Half Assed from her new album Reprieve!

I love Ani Defranco!!

Are you tired of dumbass presidential candidates? Then do something about the New Hampshire primary.

This is what New Hampshire and Iowa have given the United States. Are you happy about it?

Don't expect New Hampshire or Iowa to change, considering they seem to be the only two states which being first is an issue worth fighting over. Over time, these two squabbling states with combined populations of less than New York City have managed to move the entire election cycle forward almost a year and control not only who becomes President, but the issues the candidates are forced to address. What is good for fishermen and farmers may not be good for the rest of us. New Hampshire has gone so far as to pass a law requiring New Hampshire to hold the first presidential primary -- no matter what. The Union Leader, New Hampshire's foremost newspaper, has laid claim to being first by announcing, "the people of Iowa pick corn, the people of New Hampshire pick presidents."

The good news is there is a way around this. (Yes-sir-ree, drop your fishing poles, shut off the combine, and listen up. Iowa and New Hampshire, you're about to be knee-capped by a cheap political trick.) FairVote has organized a national program to popularize the electoral college. The idea behind the reform is to give all electoral votes of a given state to the winner of that state. What a concept. Let the winner win. This will put each state on the same footing as New Hampshire: no more Georges; no more Johns; and no more Jimmys.

It seems the Republican party is coming out against the reform. I've thought about it, but I cannot for the life of me figure out why. I can see in the short term where the powers that be might profit, but a bad system that works for you now is still a bad system, and down the road, sooner or later-- will bite you in the ass.

It's Saturday night, there's nothing to do. Hey, let's fuck the dead girl!

When I first heard of this story, I pictured a scenario where the Satanic desecration of the bod of a dead person was offered to the devil, along with the burnt-up, ashen cinders of young boy souls in gift wrapped matchboxes. This would be done in a All Hallows Eve ritual. The full harvest moon shining on the naked dead girl spread on a slab of graveyard marble surrounded by skinny boys taking turns would bring rosie color to the cheeks of Satan. I thought that maybe they thought Satan would give preferential treatment in the hierarchy of hell to those who went panting, crazed, and "gun-ho" down the black path to the worstest of all human crimes -- necrophilia.

But nothing of the sort. These boys were not Satanist. The idea of digging up the dead girl for shits and grins and a round of fun didn't pop into their wee brains until ten minutes before they drove to the graveyard. I wouldn't be knocked-out surprised had they returned home to retrieve forgotten shovels. The newspaper states: "the suspects stopped at Wal-Mart to purchase condoms on their way to the graveyard." Sounds like the first thought at the last minute to me.

Maybe, talk about ambushing the sleeping dead started in high school, started by the unpopular few. It was shock value, bullshit-soaked, mindless, inanely harmless jabber indulged in by those outside the click of snobs. Ostracized boys would pretend to be black-eyed insane so to give a lofty, deviant aura to their little boy loneliness. The groundwork for such talk had been laid decades ago by America's foremost necrophiliac, Ed Gein. (Silence of the Lambs fame -- a local boy). I imagine Cassvillian popularites could be as merciless as any Columbine High School cheerleader she-bully. (I have a feeling not many Cassvillians picked on Ed Gein and lived long enough to regret "funnin Ed"). These boys weren't afraid of having their asses kicked at school by the jocks, (they were practiced jock duckers),but were deftly afeared of *Perky* tittied cheerleader Megan slinging an early morning insult their way.

At the time of the planned (if you want to call it that) transgression against the dead girl, the boys were long out of high school, but happy memories of their fondness for deviant musings hung about them like miasmal fog. Ah, the glory that was 12th grade, and the grandeur of the graduate.

I have thought of how these boys, while sitting around flipping channels, fighting over game controllers, drinking (yes, somewhere in the not-too-distant-past they became old enough to drink), talked about shit, vomit, and whose junk was bigger. This talk turned to: what to do?

Someone picked up a newspaper, turned to the obits. Our story starts here.

"Ah, shit. That hot bitch that works at Walgren's croaked, man."

"You mean the blond one, the hot one, the one that talks to us?"

"Yeah, dude, that's her. She's here in the paper. She died in a car-motorcycle accident on farm road 211. "

"Jeeze, dude, I'd fuck her dead."

And that's how it started: wagers were made, rubbers were bought, shovels were produced, the grave was found. Then someone called the police.

I just wonder which boy volunteered "we were going to dig her up to fuck her."

Must have been some sort of interrogation. But really, I imagine they were quick to give each other up. My guess the twins rolled over on each other quick.

You ask, "how could something like that happen in America? How?"

The answer is clear to me, -- no God. Yes, no God. Those boys were not Satanist, but they were not Methodist either, nor Jewish, nor Catholic. They were adrift in the well of American culture with no anchor. Our cultural well is poisoned. It has been poisoned for a long time. Starting with Elvis, sex and American morals went on a road trip. Babies conceived in back seats and motels by unmarried people grew up in broken homes watching adds for beer, cigarettes, rock and roll, make-up, tattoos, M-t.v., even pornographic movies; the next outrage, by necessity, more outrageous than the last. Where does it end? Well, it ends anywhere on the way to orange hair -- anywhere. Whether one stops at Izod or moves beyond facial piercings, the only thing one needs to not end up in the graveyard fucking dead people is --God. These boys had no God.

I'm sleepy.)

How Rich are YOu??

Take my, "how fuckin rich are you?" test. If you are a young person you may not know the man in the picture. He once made the mistake of saying, "if our stock goes over thirty, I will dance the hula in a grass skirt on Wall Street in January." It did, and he did.

Click here to see, "how fuckin rich are you: I'm_one_Rich_Mother

Personally, I didn't think I would make the list, but my broke ass is right up there at the near-top. I may be skateboarding down to a near Darfurian income, but there are still many, many people worse off than I am.

Look, mom, a human Chia Pet.

I am William Sharum......(what a moment of self-awareness, to suddenly wake up in a modified body, a body sent through a demolition derby of whirling dervishes with sharp knives. They fixed it where I would die another day, and not on their stainless steel table or in their hospital.)

The last thing I remember was, "sign this paper or die."

The bag on my side covers my new poop chute. Friends and family were glad to hear I survived my rip-me-a-new-asshole surgery. My pipes have been moved around to where I no longer sit and shit. I figure over the past year it had saved me 20 minutes a day x 365... that's a savings of three days on the pot. WoW! Everybody should have this done; think of the time you'd save, and the money to be saved on wipe! Over a period of ten years you'll accumulate thirty days -- one month! Use it any way you want: go on vacation; sleep through July; drive to Alaska-- any way you want.

Little kids spot the bump under the shirt right away; immediately wanting to know "what's you packin?" They aren't afraid to ask. I love it when they do, particularly when their parents aren't around. I tell them I use to eat watermelon seeds, and one of them took root. It grew and grew and before I knew it, I had a giant watermelon in my gut. I then show them the scar. I tell them how the doctors took big knives and big forks and dug it out. I wince, whimper, and cry when I tell them. (sort of a re-enactment). They wince in sympathy. I tell them it hurt like hell, and I remind them not to eat watermelon. Then I laugh. They always cut a skeptical eye toward me then. Every once in a while, one of them will ask, "didn't they knock you out?"

I tell them I didn't have any money, and "that's what they do to broke people."

They know they are being bullshitted, but all the evidence of the real story is still there, at which point they'll ask to see it again. They never know what to think. The memory of me will stay for a while in their consideration of the strangeness of the wide world, and in their bad dreams. In a few years they'll figure it out and realize they'd been had by the fat man with the scar.

Someday, when I'm really feeling sorry for myself, I'll tell you all of what a groveling financial humiliation my life has become. Watch for: Hardscrabble Days.

Other blogs that are cooler than mine.

I click from blog to blog occasionally finding something to add to my "favorites." Today's choice blog reached inside me and made me better for a momet; you know, like clicking into the prurient edges of good taste in the virus packed corners of the internet leaves you creeped out and smaller -- what happened here is just the reverse. It was a vision of a life unatainable for me at this late stage of the game.

After I reached a certain point in my life, I began to look at the larger picture: in movies, I began to see the funiture behind the actors; began listening to what people were really saying; began to know when I was being lied to; began to realize my carcass body was a slab of slow moving meat draging itself over open fields under fire (not live fire, but from environmental assults -- time, gravity, disease, rot), and at the same time I began to see beauty in all things, that is, if the light's just right. The photographer who posted this choice prize keyboarded through a miasmic etherweb portal to my life and allowed me to participate in lives foreign to me: beautiful women, large expensive spaces, people who have all the time in the world, time to live their lives lit with money, leisure, good food, the right everything for everyone.

I applaud the pictures and stories on the blog I found. You too can experience this. Click here: Beauty

WAT KIND OF BIRD DON'T FLY?

This nice lady was arrested for smuggling drugs in her hair.
This is not a mugshot.(yet)

"Same old shit, huh, George?"

"Yeah, high crimes and misterameaners," George said.

When asked if he knew why he was in trouble, Bill strained and thought --trying to remember. Then he blurted, "cause I killed my wife?"

Lee and Wayne or Dewayne are names belonging to 23 percent of all murderers. So, If you know anyone named Wayne Lee... watch your back!

SEE GOD HERE -- FIRST!!!!!

If you want to see God, say this prayer then click on the link

Oh, Lord,

You are so big,

Oh, you are so big

So absolutely huge

Gosh. we're all so really impressed down here.

I can tell you

(click here to see God. Click -- go ahead, pussy.

Dare ya >> yeah, here >> God

I have written a novel and several short stories: "Christmas Cash" is an excerpt from my first novel. Click here for "Christmas Cash": williamsharumshortstories

I also have a blog of famous and timely quotes. Click here for quotes: quotes+notes